


spin me round

by jinkandtherebels



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-07-25
Packaged: 2018-04-11 03:06:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4418741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinkandtherebels/pseuds/jinkandtherebels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shisui never fades. Itachi simply grows older and more adept at ignoring all of his ghosts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	spin me round

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bizzylizzy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bizzylizzy/gifts).



> Disclaimer: THIS FIC IS QUITE OLD. Like, four years old. Yikes. 0___0
> 
> So, it's been brought to my attention that I don't really advertise my ffnet account, and I didn't really crosspost much from it, so...I'm SkywardShadow over on ffnet! Come say hi! I'm gonna try to crosspost a couple more older fics to make up for the radio silence lately. Four words: ItaShi _Say Anything_ AU. It's 11K atm and _I can't stop_. *muffled screaming*

“They’ll probably never tell our story around a campfire, will they?”

“Shinobi don’t build campfires, Shisui. They are not conducive to-”

“I was being metaphorical.”

“Ah. Of course. And why do you think they will not?”

“Well, there’s not much flair to it, is there? All the old stories have some kind of huge obstacle the characters need to get over before they can be anything close to happy. Either that or some horrific tragedy happens to them. So ours is doomed to historical obscurity, I guess.” He pauses thoughtfully. “But I think I can live with that.”

Itachi goes still at his side and does not say anything more.

.

There was a flaw in Shisui’s logic, Itachi thinks later, when blood is streaming from his eyes and mingling with saltwater. An insurmountable obstacle and a horrific tragedy both hit them not a month after that conversation; it ended with the person closest to him drowned in the river, and now their story will never be told anyway. Shisui cannot tell it, Itachi will not, and nobody else cares enough to do so.

.

His ghost lingers, not entirely unexpected, and for weeks afterward Itachi claws at his eyes on the forest ground and mouths the same words, over and over again, _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_.

They are inadequate, dismally so, but they are all he can give. He cannot die, not just yet, and so he offers promises instead of apologies. Whispers of _soon_ and _once I know my brother will be safe_ and _I don’t deserve to rest yet_.

He babbles like a madman (which any other teenager in his position would be already) to a person no one else can see, and Shisui lingers on and says nothing.

.

He never fades. Itachi simply grows older and more adept at ignoring all of his ghosts.

.

There is one time, very late (or very early), when Itachi is more than half asleep and thinks he imagines a familiar voice asking _Why didn’t you tell me?_

Itachi doesn’t answer for a long time. When he does, it comes in the form of another question; the words _Would it have changed anything if I had?_ are pressed into his pillow and Shisui’s specter has nothing to say to that.

.

He’ll never tell Shisui how close he came to refusing the order. They wouldn’t do anyone any good now, he reminds himself, his almosts and what-ifs and maybes.

But if… _if_ he had refused. _If_ he could have persuaded those in power to give the diplomats just a little more time. _If_ he had told his father everything, stood with his flesh and blood against those who would destroy them.

 _If_ he had told Shisui everything instead…then what?

He’d considered it more than once. Once would have been almost forgivable, an understandable quiver in a thirteen-year-old’s resolve to massacre everything he loved. But the traitorous thought would not leave him alone; over and over and over some small voice in the back of his head murmured _you don’t have to handle this on your own_.

He’d tried to imagine Shisui’s reaction many times—would it be hot anger or cold disappointment, a punch to his cousin’s face or just stunned silence? And afterwards, would Shisui have tried to help him or gone straight to the clan heads with the information, rendering every one of Itachi’s so-called nobler intentions a moot point? Would he have tried to offer comfort before throwing him to the wolves, hated by their family for his betrayal and by the village for his incompetence?

_Why didn’t you tell me?_

_What would you have done?_ Itachi demands almost sullenly, bone-tired and wishing Shisui would ask another question, or better yet leave him alone entirely.

Silence follows the reply and he isn’t surprised. He wouldn’t want to make a habit of carrying on actual conversations with the product of his madness; that’s one wish Shisui has respected so far.

.

The head of his old village is killed and Itachi goes back to make his presence known, remind those in power that there is still a debt owed. Remind them that there is still someone who knows their secrets and will not hesitate to use them if their deal is broken and Sasuke comes to harm.

It is strange, being home. Seeing the smiling faces of young shinobi who have never had to make a more difficult decision than what to eat for lunch, or whether kunai or shuriken would be more appropriate for the training exercise at hand. Seeing the Uchiha compound reduced to a ghost town, cobwebbed and silent, every rooftop and gravestone covered in a fine layer of dust as if even the wind has stayed away for fear of waking the restless dead.

Restless. Yes, he has no doubt. Because they were killed by one of their own, their prodigy, their most promising, at the very cusp of what was sure to be a victory for the clan. A return to their former greatness.

And a damning stroke to the rest of the world.

He wanders whenever his partner leaves him alone for more than a few minutes, eyes taking careful note of what has changed and what has not. His brain seems to sleep as he walks the still-familiar streets, feet taking him down this path and that out of habit and memory.

Inevitably, perhaps, he finds himself in the forest, following alongside a flowing river. A river that holds most of his best memories and one of his worst. It’s illogical, but he still feels almost surprised that this place, of all places, has not changed at all. Of course. Shisui’s body and the blood from Itachi’s new eyes would have flowed away within an hour of their last encounter, drifting towards the horizon and leaving no trace of anything unusual behind.

It would be so simple—right here, where it always used to feel like home—to submerge his head in the cold blue water of the Nakano and drown; he could fight his body’s instinctual need for oxygen until it was too late, he is reasonably certain. It would be simple and symbolic and some kind of poetic justice, but it would also be _easy_ , and so he turns around; leaves to meet up with his partner once more. Placates under his breath.

_Not yet, Shisui. Not just yet._

.

He sometimes thinks that it was doomed from the start. Shinobi are better off not having friends, let alone lovers; making such connections opens up so many gateways to hurt. Their life is, after all, comprised of a career soaked in blood, and how can some of that not come back in the form of bad karma? Itachi had killed more people by age thirteen than many had in their entire careers, even before the murder of his family was taken into account, so it was only fair that he too lose something he loved. By his own hands, no less. He should have seen it coming.

But Shisui was always the stubborn one, and he approached their relationship with the same tenacity as he did anything else. That, and a bizarre brand of optimism that no one believed he would be able to maintain as the years went on. (Itachi had thought it possible, but that was neither here nor there.)

Shisui had believed wholeheartedly in their combined capacity to weather the storms and emerge on the other side, soaked through and shivering but ultimately no worse off than they were before.

He’d always been a smooth talker, charming marks as often as using his prized _kotoamatsukami_ technique on them, so it hadn’t really been a surprise when Itachi ended up allowing himself to believe the fantasy as well.

.

He sees the blood on his pillow three mornings in a row with no battle to blame for it, and he knows. Promises once more.

_Soon._

.

It ends the way he hoped it would, the way he planned it; with his little brother standing before him, eyes wide with fear and then confusion when Itachi tries (selfishly) to tell him the truth with a smile. There is blood on his face mixing with water like it did all those years ago—rainwater this time, however—and a grey sky above.

His clouded, ruined eyes strain for the sight of a pair of wide black ones or a mop of messy hair, but there is nothing there and it almost feels like a betrayal that Shisui would leave him _now_ , after all the time Itachi spent begging him to leave.

A betrayal indeed. Fitting, then.

Exhaustion sinks into his bones like it belongs there, like he hasn’t slept in a decade. Thoughts of Shisui fade away along with everything else.

.

“You finally made it.”

He doesn’t open his eyes. “I’m sorry, Shisui.”

“So you’ve said. Again and again.”

“It wasn’t enough.”

“Not really.”

He was expecting that, so it doesn’t especially hurt. “Where am I, then?”

“You’re…elsewhere. You ain’t alive anymore, that’s really all I can tell you. I’ve been here these past eight years and I still haven’t figured it out yet.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“We’ll probably have a better shot of it now that we’re together. The two vaunted Uchiha prodigies, unlocking the mysteries of the afterlife. Sounds about right.” His laugh is bitter, but less so than Itachi imagined it would be, and that is something at least. That and the mention of ‘together’.

Something occurs to him. “Why are you here? Why have you been trapped? Is the rest of the clan-?”

“Your parents moved on pretty quickly,” Shisui answers, and Itachi observes that despite everything he has ended up carrying on a conversation with his ghost. Does it still count when he himself is a ghost now? “Mikoto wanted to wait, but your dad wasn’t having any of it, and she followed him of course. The rest…” Itachi imagines a shrug, his eyes still closed. “I don’t know. I don’t remember them showing up here.”

He wonders if he should feel relieved or pained that his parents moved on so quickly. After a moment’s consideration he settles on the former and moves on. “And you?”

A pause. He is reminded of their many brief exchanges over the years and wonders if this is to be the same, if Shisui has once again vanished while Itachi hid his eyes.

The thought dissolves a minute later when Shisui responds. “Unfinished business, I guess. I needed to wait for you.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Of course. There it is again, the impossible question that has been haunting him for the better part of a decade. Shisui, it seems, cannot let go without an answer.

So Itachi sighs, opens his mouth and gives it to him.

“Because I knew you would turn on me.”

.

Time seems to be more fluid here than it was. Itachi can’t tell how long he’s spent in self-imposed darkness, minutes or hours or days, Shisui silent beside him. In contemplation, perhaps, or fury; he can’t tell that either.

A warm, lanky body finally settles at his side, stretched out and breathing, and it could almost feel like nothing has changed from those lazy languid days by the river. The closest thing to a proper childhood either of them had.

“I would’ve given you a heads-up before I told anyone,” Shisui says quietly. “Or just tried to beat you down then and there. I wouldn’t’ve snuck around.”

It’s astonishing, Itachi thinks, that even now he can still find new things to feel ashamed about. “I would have done it differently if I’d thought there was any other option.”

“I know.”

There’s trust implied there, or at least something resembling it. It is enough for him to want to open his eyes.

His vision is clear, startlingly so, sharper than it has been in years. Beside him is a face as familiar as his own, all mussed hair and wide eyes made for smiling and Shisui is looking at him with something like warmth.

“Guess they might end up telling our story after all,” he murmurs, but Itachi shakes his head.

“Everyone who knows it is dead.”

Shisui smiles a tiny little flicker of a smile. “Well then, looks like we’ll be the only ones who know how it ends.”

The corner of his own mouth quirks up just a bit. It’s a start.

“I think I can live with that,” Itachi says.

_end_


End file.
